On my way back from visiting family in Chicago this past week, the weather hit the mid 50s as I was passing through Ohio, and I realized that the witch hazels at Brotzman’s nursery might be coming into bloom. I called Tim Brotzman, one of the owners of this wholesale nursery on the south shore of Lake Erie, and he assured me that the witch hazels had indeed come into flower, and I should feel free to stop by. Tim is, in my estimation, the king of spring flowering trees. His redbud selections and witch hazels can be found in many good retail nurseries, and I was excited to have the chance to see – and smell –the witch hazels in peak bloom. Although there are fall blooming species and varieties of witch hazel (and, due to their vigor, these are often used as the grafting rootstock for many varieties), many cultivated forms provide some of the first flowers of the year in the garden, with the flowers dangling from branches hanging above other early arrivals such as snowdrops and hellebores.
I love witch hazels for their flowers and their scent. Catalogs and the internet can provide me with images that share the color and form of their flowers, but I am always left wanting to get a whiff of new cultivars that I see listed in catalogs. I love plantspeople and am excited to have their take on a new variety, but still, I always want to experience scent for myself. Sadly, by the time many nurseries open for the season, many witch hazels are past bloom and you have to purchase these fragrant trees with a sense of caveat emptor. Sense of scent is personal, and it is hard to rely on the salesperson’s perspective on what is right for you. It would be the equivalent of walking through the fragrance section of Bloomingdale’s and being told by a clerk to just trust them, this scent is right for you. I can still remember the Polo cologne that I drenched myself in each morning before school as a teenage boy. I wish the clerk who sold it to me had told me then that I did not need to wear something strong enough to cover up the scent of a polo pony’s back end, but he did not. I believe our sense of what smells good evolves (thank God) so I wanted to smell these cultivars for myself before selecting one for my garden, because I wanted it to be with me for years to come, and not just a reminder of an adolescent folly.
Brotzman’s nursery was easy to find, with a few witch hazels pushing their soft yellow flowers forth in a field across from its entrance. I pulled in and Tim sent me off to the back of the property where a number of these small trees were planted out and where more awaited my nose in a series of hoophouses filled with young specimens being prepared to be shipped out to vendors (including a number marked for Windy Hill Farm in Great Barrington). Their flowers ranged from soft yellows and reds to purple and orange. Upon closer examination, many varieties had flowers of more than one hue that at a distance appeared red, or orange, but up close were two toned or bicolored.
Some old standards were in the garden and their scent was impressive, especially, the yellow flowers of ‘Barnstede Gold,’ but as I entered the hoophouses I realized that I was going to have the same problem I probably had when I was sixteen and bought a bottle of Polo. How could one differentiate the subtleties (or lack thereof) of any given variety when they were packed in cheek by jowl under one roof? It was at this moment that I realized I had learned something over the past few decades that could have prevented me from smelling like a bordello in high school. Take something out of its surroundings and assess it on its own for its virtues and weaknesses. As I brought pots forward to the edge of the hoophouse, I was able to isolate their scents from those of their peers. And I fell in love with a few: the strong, clear floral fragrance of ‘Angelly’ with it soft yellow flowers was a definite winner, and the subtle, but fruity ‘Strawberries and Cream’ – named for its red and cream flowers, not for its fragrance – was also a scent I could imagine wafting across my garden in late winter, reminding me of what the coming seasons would bring. ‘Mercedes’ had beautiful flowers and seemed like its scent would not prove to be too much in old age. ‘Tosca” had soft red flowers and was scented for a night at the opera. I was not sure I could be a professional nose for the fragrance industry given my cologne history, but I might be able to take on such a role in the witch hazel business. I took notes and headed home, where much to my surprise, a grafted witch hazel in my garden was in bloom.
I was surprised because the witch hazel at home, a selection I purchased a while back called ‘Orange Encore’, was grafted and grown on rootstock of a fall blooming variety. Last fall, its largest branches had put forth yellow flowers and I came to determine, as can happen with grafted trees, that it had reverted to its rootstock. But this week, a number of its smaller branches carried intensely sweet, fragrant, orange spidery flowers that bordered on being overwhelming compared to the fragrances of the cultivars I had seen on my trip. I know that if I do not cut out the branches that bloomed in the fall, the rootstock will likely dominate the second flush of flowers and the ‘Orange Encore’ branches will weaken and eventually die. But in the interim I have a tree for two seasons, as well as a few goods idea of what fragrance I will choose to replace ‘Orange Encore’ when it succumbs to the rootstock. Perhaps ‘Orange Encore’ will be the Polo of my garden, an adolescent folly to be left behind for the subtlety of ‘Tosca’ or “Mercedes.’ And that is the evolution of a garden, a species, and a man who once wore too much cologne.
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A gardener grows through observation, experimentation, and learning from the failures, triumphs, and hard work of oneself and others. In this sense, all gardeners are self-taught, while at the same time intrinsically connected to a tradition and a community that finds satisfaction through working the soil and sharing their experiences with one another. This column explores those relationships and how we learn about the world around us from plants and our fellow gardeners.
